


Thanatos

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood, Corpses, Gore, Immortality, M/M, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-08
Updated: 2010-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-12 12:59:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France always finds something about England alluring, especially those times when he's dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanatos

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Thanatos  
> Author: Zalia Chimera  
> Fandom: Hetalia  
> Pairing: FranceXEngland  
> Rating: NC-17, dear god so NC-17  
> Warnings: Necrophilia, gore, disturbing imagery.

There's a hole in England's chest where the bullet had struck him, shattered his sternum most likely, wedged bone and lead into his flesh.

France dips his head to kiss him, licks the blood away from cold lips which do not soften or part for him, and lets his own breath out into England's mouth in a soft puff of laughter.

"You are always so unresponsive, my love."

He cups the back of England's head, raises it from the sodden sand to kiss him again deeply, decay and salt water smearing on his lips. He catches England's tongue between his teeth, tugs it gently.

He thinks about cutting it out to save it from being devoured by beasts. It's a delicacy to them, he has been told, the tongue of a dead man.

He leans closer, straddling the stiff form, knees sinking into the wet beach, soaking through his trouser legs. He presses chest to chest with England, and blood wells up in England's mouth at the motion, spilling down his chin unheeded. France laps it away, tastes stale blood and England in his mouth, more than he has ever tasted on skin or in semen.

It makes him bold and he rocks experimentally against England's prone form, shudder-gasps at the sharp friction of coarse material and flesh against his cock. He ducks, presses his lips to every bit of England's skin that he can reach, chin and cheeks, the corners of glassy green eyes, lavishes him with the attention that he was never normally permitted to demonstrate. He gives it now, and more, relishing the feel of cooling skin beneath his lips, so pale and pretty, and England is _nicer_ when he's like this, much more agreeable.

He noses at the collar of England's uniform. Red, he has always looked good in red. Even more so now when it is puddling around him instead of inside him where France cannot touch it like he can now. England always spoils him when he is like this, and spoils his fun when he is not. France has learned to enjoy these stolen moments. They never last.

England's head flops heavily to one side, baring his throat to France, just to him. It makes France groan softly, needily, and he fumbles open his pants, sliding sodden cloth down enough to free his already hard and aching cock.

"Ah..." he groans, rubbing up against England, the uniform scratching against his skin. His fingers grope for the dead man's trousers, made clumsy with lust and frigid weather. He pulls them down sharply; no need for care and time and sweetness. "Look at what you do to me," he croons, grasping England's penis, feeling the weight of it, cool and flaccid in his hand. "You always do this to me, amour." Makes him so _hard_ , so _desperate_.

He wraps his hand around both of their cocks and grinds against England, smearing pre-come against England's dick. France shivers at the feeling and it's not enough, not nearly enough.

His eyes turn to broken skin, the flaps of material sticky against the open wound. He prods at it, head tilted to the side, watching curiously as the flesh gives beneath his finger, the edges twisting and buckling. So pliant. His breath hitches and he bites his lip, half guilt, half intense anticipation.

He plunges two fingers into the hole in England's chest, a moan wrenching itself from his mouth as they sink into lukewarm flesh. Tacky, half-dried blood clings like sickly ribbons when he pulls his fingers away. He stares at them, at the blood on them, slick in the grey light, the breath wrenching from his lungs in harsh little gasps. He raises them to his lips, flicks his tongue out delicately and almost comes right there and then as the taste floods his mouth. He sucks and sucks until they're clean, eyes dropping closed until only the barest sliver of blue can be seen beneath fair eyelashes.

He savours it as his fingers slide in again, moving slowly, relishing every little change in texture; bone fragments and organs and perhaps he'll touch England's heart if he digs deeply enough. It makes him smile, lips turning up at the edges with all the warmth seeping out of the expression. "It would drive you mad, wouldn't it?" he says, smearing sticky blood against England's lips, bringing colour to them before kissing it away again, "if I took your heart. But it would be too late."

He raises his hips and thrusts back down, rubbing and fucking himself against England's cooling flesh, pliant and unresisting. His fingers dip into the wound again and again, pressing deeper, stretching it wider and feeling the rolls of England's ribs. The splinters of bone sting as they cut into his fingers. It makes him laugh, high and mad, head thrown back. His blood will be in England now, in his veins like a disease or the maggots which will surely come. He could stay like this forever, he thinks, his hand wrapped around England's heart.

He can feel it coiling tight inside him, in his belly and balls and his hand is inside England now, pushed almost past the knuckles like he's fisting him. Blood has stained his sleeve, and he'll never get rid of it, will keep it forever in the back of his wardrobe, wrapped in butcher paper. He gasps when his fingers touch the little ball of metal, a sound of delight. They twist around it and he yanks cruelly, but England does not shudder or moan so it must be alright, he must _like_ it, and bullet and bone and gore give beneath his fingers. He nuzzles his face against England's neck, breathes in the death-scent like sweetest perfume as warmth begins to seep through the flesh beneath him, colouring the pretty pale skin sickly pink.

He tightens his thighs around England's body, moving _faster, harder_ , desperate and uncoordinated. He grabs England's shoulders, slams him down against the ground again and again, lips bared in a snarl. It's not enough! it's never enough with England! He bites, bites hard on England's throat, the thready, newly forming pulse stifled by his teeth. He wants to rip it out, stall it permanently.

There's a gasp beneath him, the hungry rise of the chest and arch of a shattered spine reformed, bucking against him. The green eyes blink, wide and dazed, and his mouth opens but no air leaves it, still caught in that twisting place between death and life.

France comes hard. Their eyes lock and he screams as he spills out over England's body, spattering over his cock and stomach. England glares and shudders as warmth returns to him, but he cannot move, not yet, nerves and sinews not yet connected. France cannot bring himself to care.

There's a moment of stillness and silence, and then France is shoved away violently. England rolls over, retching, vomiting up bile and blood onto the sand.

France lies back and watches, eyes fixed on the hole in England's chest as it slowly closes, bone and flesh knitting together. He strokes his softening cock slowly, drawing out the last of his orgasm.

Finally England stops vomiting and just kneels there, drawing in painful, shuddering breaths. France tucks his cock back into his trousers and fastens them up, wiping his fingers carelessly upon them. They are already quite ruined; a little more distasteful mess will make no difference.

"The tide is coming in." It will wash away the blood on the sand, the evidence. It is such a pity.

England turns his head and fixes him with a hate-filled look. "Hoping I'll drown?" England rasps, then coughs violently, bringing up more blood. It is an unpleasant shade of brown; not slick and red at all.

France smiles in response, a humourless twist of his lips. "The idea has a certain appeal," he admits, "but I'm afraid that I am quite spent, mon cher. The inclement weather does my libido no favours."

Slowly, England pushes himself to his feet. It is a rather impressive feat, considering he was a corpse only a few minutes ago, but perhaps he still feels France's eyes lingering on his form and thinks about how much pleasure France will get if he does drown. His body is racked with shivers, and he manages to clumsily slide off the heavy redcoat, letting it drop to the sand.

"You just desecrated a corpse, you sick fucker," England says. His fingers probe curiously at the rapidly healing wound in his chest. France hopes that it scars. "You'd think that that would be worse for your libido than the weather ever could be." His voice is cold and calm, but there is a slight tremble to his voice. _His_ corpse, after all, _his_ body that has been desecrated.

"Indeed," France replies darkly, "death does do terrible things to it."

England coughs again, his skin regaining a little of that pleasing deathly pallor for a moment, from shock or pain perhaps. "You sicken me."

"Ah, Angleterre," France says, "you should not look so alluring as a corpse then."

"I wish I could say that I'm not certain whether or not you're jesting, but considering the mess you've left on me and yourself, I'm fairly certain that there's no jest in you."

He takes a few staggering steps, leaving uneven footprints in the wet sand. He pauses at France's side. "I should kill you for this. What you did is an abomination before man and God."

France shrugs. He grabs England's wrist and presses a kiss to the inside of it. His pulse is still thin and England shudders in revulsion. "And we are neither god nor man," France says, smile never faltering.

"You're vile."

"And you enjoy the sight of my corpse, just as much as I take pleasure in the sight of yours."

"Doesn't mean I want to fuck it."

Another shrug. "Mais non, but you get off on the killing, on being able to dominate someone so completely. You cannot hide it from me."

England tears his hand away sharply. There is little colour to his skin yet, but if he were more fully alive, France knows that he would be blushing. His reactions have always been an open book to France.

"I feel nothing but disgust for you, dead or alive."

If anything, that makes France smile more, baring his teeth. "You are so cold, Angleterre. But you forget, I have touched your heart!" He holds up the bullet, rolling it between his fingers like the most precious of diamonds.

England sneers and takes another few steps. "Get out of my sight and stay out of it or I might decide to find out how difficult it is for you to heal when your severed head and limbs are split between five continents."

He walks away, not so much a stalk as a stagger, full of painful pauses. France watches him until he is lost to vision and the tide laps at the toes of his boots.


End file.
